


Lady of the Loch

by LiraelClayr007



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Faeries - Freeform, Flashbacks, Magic, Selkie AU, Slow Burn, selkie!rose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-09-28 13:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20426696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: He stops, transfixed. There’s a woman standing near the edge of the loch. He nearly cries out in his shock; it’s been weeks since he’s seen another person. And this one...he’s quite certain he’s never seen this one before. Her blond hair flashes gold in the sunlight, flowing down her back in a glowing wave. And there’s something odd about her posture, almost as if she’s reaching out to the water even though her hands are at her sides.She must hear his step, because she turns, and he can barely breathe. It’s not that she’s beautiful, although she is. It’s her eyes. Her face is young, maybe twenty or so, but her eyes…Those eyes have seen Time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is. The "selkie fic" I've been talking about for ages. It's about 1/3 written and the rest is outlined out (although let's be honest, we all know that my stories tend to Get Away From Me, even when I outline 😜) so hopefully posting the first chapter will be motivation to me to finish. (And for sure comments and kudos will motivate me even more!!!) And yes, I gave away in the tags that Rose is a selkie. Like I said, I've been talking about it for ages, so it would have come up in the comments anyway. But it doesn't come up in the actual story for a bit, so just be patient!! 💙
> 
> P.S. Huge thanks to LadyPaigeC for coming up with the perfect title!!

“Good morning to you,” the man says, nodding to the giants by the loch. “Hope the new day treats you well.” 

The giants don’t answer. He isn’t surprised; they’d been turned to stone thousands of years ago. Still, it’s good to be polite.

He sits on his porch, rocking back and forth in a chair he’d made out of a young willow tree, listening to the world awaken. The breeze off the loch, cool but not cold, ruffles his wild, silvery hair. Birds sing in the heather, and on his roof; he hopes the ones on the roof aren’t tearing at his thatch. He cocks his head, listening more intently, and decides they’re just greeting the morning. Good.

There is a clatter next to him; his chair has knocked over the now empty bowl that last night held milk to appease the less domestic contingent local brownies, the ones living about his barn and here and there in the nearby fields. “Good thing they drank it first,” he mutters. “Got to keep the locals happy.”

Then he barks a laugh. Locals. He looks around at the perfect emptiness surrounding him; the closest town is nearly six miles away. The townsfolk won’t settle any nearer to the stone giants of the Ring of Brodgar, say the stone ring gives off “emanations.” They almost always shiver when they say it, and hug their arms across their chests. And that’s just fine with him. He likes the quiet.

They come, though. A bitter smile settles on his lips. Oh yes, they come when they need him, when they’ve got a lost lamb or an aching back or a broken heart. Almost always alone, peeking over their shoulders to make sure no one can see them. As if the hills and trees have eyes. He thinks of the small copse of trees behind his house and the bitterness leaves his smile. _They may just be right about about the trees_, he thinks.

He stands, stretches, hears the popping sounds in his back. He’s not old exactly, but his youth is a memory. The twinges and twangs of time are catching up to him.

Not today, though. Today he’s going to walk by the loch and then work in his garden until the afternoon rain. After that...his thoughts drift as he walks along the pebble-strewn path to the water. He has plenty of indoor work to keep him busy for the day, but he’d rather be outside, breathing the air, soaking up the sun’s magic. The edge of his mouth quirks a bit at that. It’s not _true_ magic, what he takes from the sun, but everyone believes it is. Or that he drinks liquid moonbeams. Or that he…

He stops, transfixed. There’s a woman standing near the edge of the loch. He nearly cries out in his shock; it’s been weeks since he’s seen another person. And this one...he’s quite certain he’s never seen this one before. Her blond hair flashes gold in the sunlight, flowing down her back in a glowing wave. And there’s something odd about her posture, almost as if she’s reaching out to the water even though her hands are at her sides.

She must hear his step, because she turns, and he can barely breathe. It’s not that she’s beautiful, although she is. It’s her eyes. Her face is young, maybe twenty or so, but her eyes…

Those eyes have seen Time.

Only long experience with the unknown and unusual allows him to keep his reaction on the inside. He doesn’t fear this woman, but there is something decidedly different about her.

Now he just has to figure out if she’s here by accident, or because she knows how familiar he is with the realm of “different.”

“Good morning, mistress,” he says, and not a hint of his hesitancy shows in his voice. 

She stands silent before him, unmoving, unblinking. 

“I’m… well, everyone around here just calls me the Doctor, so that’s good enough to be getting on with.”

Still she doesn’t say anything. Her eyes seem to be looking inside him, and he wonders what it is she’s looking for.

“I’m not really a doctor,” he says, a bit unnerved by her open stare and her silence, and beginning to ramble. “I help people with things, and oftentimes that involves healing, so folks started calling me Doctor, oh, ages back. It’s been so long, I’m not even sure I remember the name my parents called me properly anymore. Even they eventually gave in and called me Doctor along with everyone else.” He offers up a smile at this, inviting her to smile with him. She doesn’t accept the invitation.

The silence stretches. Unable to handle this one-sided conversation any longer he blurts, “Walk with me, mistress? I came down to the loch to enjoy the morning breeze along the shore, to feel the sun on my face and listen to the water lapping at the stones. If you’re not in a chatty mood, would you at least join me for my walk?”

At this she pulls back a bit; not afraid, just startled. She doesn’t exactly smile, but her expression softens. Then, so slowly the movement is nearly imperceptible at first, she nods.

“Excellent!” He steps closer to her, gifting her an effortless smile. “Shall we?” he asks, gesturing down the beach.

She nods again, takes a small step forward, and collapses onto the sand and stones.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this a bonus chapter...because I have zero patience. 😉
> 
> Also...I _almost_ feel bad about this chapter. Almost, but not quite...
> 
> See, the even-numbered chapters are going to be flashbacks. So if you were expecting to find out why Rose suddenly collapsed on the beach...sorry. You're going to have to wait. (But please trust me. The flashbacks are totally worth it!)

_..Then.._

He knows from the start that he’s different from his brothers and sisters.

They never invite him to play with them. There they are, one big group tossing a ball back and forth, and he’s off at the edge of the forest, peeking out from behind a tree. Their father brings home candy from town, a rare treat, and somehow his siblings get their share but he’s left empty handed.

It’s even worse if he tries to insinuate himself into their games. “I’ll play too!” he says one day. They’re playing hide and seek.

“Alright,” says his oldest sister. “You can hide. I’ll be the seeker.” He hears the laughter of his other siblings, but doesn’t see the looks they exchange. He’s too excited to be playing along.

“I will! I’m good at hiding!” he shouts, and runs off with the others.

Some four hours later, after he’s missed dinner, he realizes no one is looking for him.

He is five years old.

But mostly he doesn’t mind being without his brothers and sisters, because he has other friends. Friends in the forest, in the loch, in the streams. They dance in the heather and perch on the cairns. All of Scotland is full of his friends, only most people can’t see them. Most people don’t even believe in them.

His brothers and sisters don’t believe. And they laugh at him when he talks about them. He tries at first, because who wouldn’t want to meet such wonderful creatures? “Come,” he says. “But quiet. Shush and shush. You’ll scare her.” He draws one of the bigger sisters with him, because it’s a pretty green dryad down by the big oak tree, and why wouldn’t she’ll like the beautiful and mysterious fairy? He doesn’t have all the words to tell her this, so he just again says, “Come.”

But when they get to the giant oak and he kneels before the fairy lady, his sister stomps her foot and says, “What did you bring me all the way down here for? To show me a tree? I walked and walked, and all I’ve got is muddy feet! And I’ll probably have bites from the flies too.”

She glares down at him, hands on her hips, then storms back to the house. He hears her mutter about “crazy boys who talk to trees,” and then she is gone.

He tries with the others, tries to show them heather pixies, nyads, the brownie that lives in their house, even kelpies--though those are dangerous, so he only looks at them from a distance. Once he sees a cat sìth, a big black cat some people say is a witch in disguise, but none of his brothers or sisters will believe he’s seen anything at all. “You’re only pulling our tails,” they say. “There’s no such thing as cat sìth. You only say that to make us wander across the moor ‘til we’re hungry and tired and probably lost. Or you saw a little kitten and named it for the fae. No thank you all the same.” They all jostle him, even though he’s the littlest, until he’s shunted from the group.

Again.

The family brownie starts to make trouble. It’s only small things at first--broken toys, wobbly chair legs, sharp twigs left in shoes. One day all the stitches in the boys’ trousers came unstitched all at once, right around the noon meal. Master brownie is particularly proud of that one. “I’ve been with ye from yer cradle,” he says. “I won’t let yonder kinfolk treat ye so.”

“Please,” he begs. “Don’t hurt them. They…” He turns his face to the wall so the brownie won’t see his tears in the moonlight. After a long pause he says, “They aren’t kind, my brothers and sisters. But I feel sorry for them. They’re blind to so much of the world. Maybe the best part. I can’t hate them for being born without eyes.”

“Ye can hate them for not believing ye.”

The boy smiles, but his eyes are full of sadness. “I don’t want to hate at all. I don’t think hating would be very good for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I forgot to add after the last chapter: [the Ring of Brodgar](https://www.google.com/search?q=ring+of+brodgar&client=safari&channel=mac_bm&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi72caX-qbkAhWaHzQIHdFCA24Q_AUIESgB&biw=1240&bih=648) is a real place in Orkney, Scotland. When I discovered it in my research, it seemed like the perfect place for the Doctor to live. 💙


	3. Chapter 3

_..Now.._

The Doctor is kneeling at her side in a moment, wet sand soaking into his canvas trousers. He puts his cheek next to her slightly parted lips, and when he feels her breath he empties his own lungs with relief. “You’re alive, then,” he says, talking to her even though he doesn’t expect an answer. Brushing her golden hair out of her face he says, “Still, you don’t look good.” Her skin is pale, with a slight blue tint around her mouth. She may be breathing, but she’s not getting enough air. Or maybe…

Moving quickly but acting as gently as he can he begins to check her for wounds. “I’m sorry, fair lady, for any impropriety. But, as I mentioned before, I’ve a bit of a gift for healing and your color doesn’t look good. I think you must be bleeding somewhere. I’ve got to find where so I can help.” He knows in her current state his words don’t mean much of anything to her, but he keeps his voice working just the same. His tone is soothing, and it almost helps to diminish his own fears.

Almost.

As he runs his hands down her right thigh, softly seeking for any injuries, her whole body shudders. He feels something warm and sticky on his fingertips and knows he’s found the injury. He looks at his hand, blinks several times, then looks again.

The blood on his fingers is silver. In the sunlight it nearly glows.

“You’re of the fae,” he says, wonder tingeing his voice.

He takes just a moment to look at her face again. He doesn’t know her, doesn’t recognize her kind, but when he looks with the right eyes he can see the signs he missed. There’s an almost blurry softness to her, with strength hiding beneath. And her skin, while pale from her injury, is nearly flawless. He’s never met her kind before, but the silver blood tells all. She is one of the fair folk.

He gives his head a firm shake, forcing his eyes away from her face. Now is not the time to stare, it is time to work. He’ll never know of her kind--or even her name--if he can’t save her.

“I’m sorry, mistress,” he says, drawing the long grey fabric of her skirt up to reveal her legs. He winces; her entire right leg, all the way down to her surprisingly bare foot, is coated with dripping silver blood. Her skirt is soaked with it as well. He just hadn’t noticed; silver blood on a grey wool skirt doesn’t show up unless you’re looking for it. He expects to find a gaping wound in her thigh--a long slash, or flesh torn by some beast’s teeth--but it’s only a shallow slice. It’s slightly longer than his hand, but not at all deep, and nothing that should cause so much blood.

Unless she’s been walking around with this bleeding wound. How far had she come to find him? Had she been looking for him specifically, or was it just a chance meeting? Why didn’t she bind it herself? And where did she come from?

But as interesting as these questions are, none of them is important enough to take his mind off his current task: saving the beautiful, unconscious woman sprawled on the wet sand of his beach. With no hesitation he pulls his shirt over his head--no time to bother with buttons--and begins tearing the soft linen into strips. Folding one to make a small, thick pad, he places that on the wound, then winds the other strips around her leg, bandaging the cut and putting pressure on it to stop the bleeding at the same time.

The makeshift bandage is soaked with silver blood almost at once.

This should not be happening. A cut like that, it doesn’t bleed this much. It shouldn’t, but there it is, right in front of his eyes. Frustrated, he wraps another three strips around the already leaking bandages, then holds both hands over the wrapped wound. Grimacing, he mutters a few words in a language long forgotten by all but a few still connected to the magic of the land. A soft white light begins to glow under his hands, and the woman cries out--a wordless cry somewhere between pain and relief. After only a moment she falls silent, the light dims then goes out completely, and the Doctor slumps with relief.

“That’s all I can do here, mistress,” he says, the weariness in his voice unmistakable. “The bleeding has slowed, at least. It’ll do until I can get you indoors.” Exhausted though he is, he unceremoniously scoops her into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how difficult it is to find information on faerie blood?
> 
> And then, if you do happen to find some somewhere, it almost certainly contradicts what you found somewhere else. Some myths say faerie blood is red, like humans. Some say it's green. Some say it varies, depending on what type of faerie you're talking about. Some say faeries don't bleed at all.
> 
> So I made up my own reality. Because that's what writers do, right? 😉
> 
> p.s. You _may_ get chapter four tomorrow. It's kind of being a pain. Otherwise you'll get it Monday evening or Tuesday morning, depending on how my (very busy) holiday weekend goes. Thanks for all the most excellent comments!! I can't even say how brilliant it is to see all the ao3 emails in my inbox. You're all the best!!! 💙


	4. Chapter 4

_..Then.._

Not long after his eighth birthday he learns who he truly is.

He’s finishing his noon meal, licking honey off his fingertips so he can finish his milk without getting the cup sticky, when he hears a cry from outside. There is a scramble to see which of the siblings can get to the door first; someone’s milk tips over and a splash of white spreads across the table. The boy doesn’t hurry; he’ll only be pushed out of the way, and he’s fairly confident, in the way of young boys everywhere, that this sort of trouble couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him. Things happening in this household so rarely do, anymore.

But this time it does.

It’s their nearest neighbor carrying his only child, a girl. He’s making a noise like a wounded animal. She’s limp in his arms, a pale ragdoll, making no noise at all.

“She was picking apples,” says their neighbor, his eyes wild and unfocused. “Fell out of the tree. Just...fell! She never falls! Scratched her arm up bad, so much blood…” His voice shatters, a glass falling to the floor. “She won’t wake up. Won’t do anything.” He looks at the pack of children, from one to the other until he finds the boy. “You! I hear tell you can do…” He looks away, uneasy, unsure what to say. Finally he says, “Things. I hear you can do _things_.” He looks back and the boy nods; the panicky man nearly crumples to the ground in his relief.

The boy rattles off some instructions to a few of his sisters--some things he needs to clean the scratches, some bandages and herbs he needs to stop the bleeding--and then stands in mute disbelief when they run off to obey without arguing. When did they start taking him seriously? He brushes it aside; helping the girl is the important thing now.

She’s only a year or so younger than he is, but she looks so small cradled in her father’s arms, her own arms and legs dangling uselessly. “Lay her down here,” says the boy, pointing to a patch of grass under a tree not far from where they’re standing. He’s spent many an hour on his back in that same spot, dappled sunlight on his face, so he knows the ground is soft. The man obeys without question, and again the boy takes a moment to wonder. But everyone is looking at him, so he tucks his thoughts away to wonder at another time.

Feather light, he rests his palms on the girl’s small cheeks. He closes his eyes and looks inside. He doesn’t talk about it, but it’s one of those things he’s always known how to do, like seeing the faeries, and knowing their words. This different way of seeing, it’s just a thing he can do, like his da can play the fiddle and one of his sisters can paint beautiful pictures. And he doesn’t talk about it, because it’s like the faeries. They won’t understand. They won’t even try.

But this girl, he can’t fix her with herbs or a splint. Sometimes he can fix the animals that way. He even helped one of the brothers when he broke his arm jumping out of the hayloft last summer. But not this time. There’s something wrong inside the girl’s head, he can tell that just by looking the normal way. So he looks inside.

And there it is.

He opens his eyes and looks at her father. “She’s bleeding inside her head. I can fix it, I think, but it will look...strange. And she may cry out. After, she’ll sleep for...I don’t know how long, a bit of time, I’d guess, and then she’ll wake up and be very hungry and be herself again.” He bites his lower lip, then adds, “I think.”

Tears leak from the man’s eyes. “Please. She’s all we have. Save my girl.”

So he closes his eyes again, and this time speaks the words that will knit her back together. Not where anyone else can see, but on the inside. He feels the heat build up in his fingers, the healing heat, and then he pushes it into the girl, soft as a puff of air blowing dandelion clocks across the heather.

The girl shrieks in pain, one foot kicking out as if in protest. The rest of her remains still, however, and soon the work is done. The boy falls back onto the grass, for the moment too worn to speak.

His heartbeat roars in his ears, but everything else around him is still and silent. One breath, two, three. Then the girl’s father falls to his knees beside her, his tears falling like rain onto her faded blue dress..

“They talk of you in town,” he says, “all murmurs and whispers. They say you can find things, that sometimes you can fix things. But you...you’re not just a fixer or a finder. You’re a doctor.”

His voice is raw gratitude and awe, and when the boy hears it something inside him shifts. It’s almost like he’s spent his whole life walking on his hands and suddenly he’s learned to stand on his feet instead.

Doctor. No one has ever called him Doctor before, but he knows it belongs to him. It is his true name. The faeries tell him how names have power, and he always agrees, but he’s never truly understood until now.

_I am the Doctor._

He doesn’t speak the words aloud, but even speaking them inside his head he can feel the power welling up inside him.

He is still sprawled on his back in the grass, weak from healing the girl’s head, but he can already feel his strength returning. _Good,_ he thinks. _Her arm is still bleeding. That needs regular cleaning and binding._ He tries to sit up but falls back again. _It can wait another minute or two..._

_I am the Doctor._

He looks at the bits of blue sky through the green leaves above his head and the corners of his lips turn up in a small smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves*
> 
> Hope you enjoyed your weekend! I sure did--did lots of family stuff, went to the beach, finished crocheting a blanket for my son, and even managed to write a word or two. 😉
> 
> If I stick to my outline (which, let's face it, is only about 65% likely at this point) this will be 14 chapters long. So you've got a _rough_ idea, at least!
> 
> Oh, I went back and added little "then" and "now" headings to the chapters so it's clear if you're reading a flashback or not.
> 
> Here endeth the author's notes. Have a fantastic day!!! 💙


	5. Chapter 5

_..Now.._

Rose awakens slowly, like swimming through deep waters to the surface for a clear breath of air and sunlight. She blinks her eyes several times, trying to make sense of her surroundings, but she has no memory of this place. She’s in a bed, a human bed, covered by a worn quilt of greens and golds, and her head rests on a cloth stuffed with something soft. It smells like a human, but also like...birds. Feathers? She’s never slept on feathers before. The walls are of rough hewn logs, the ceiling slanted to show the thatched roof above. Interesting smells dance in the air; something cooking nearby, probably in another room, and closer to she smells herbs, strong ones. She moves to sit up but her body protests, stiff from disuse. How long has she been here? Closing her eyes, she sends out her senses. At least a day. Likely two. She feels a desperate need to be fully herself again, and at that thought anger flashes through her so completely that she forgets everything else.

She lets out a fierce, animalistic cry of pure rage.

Before she finishes the scream a man rushes into the room. Her scream dies out, though her anger still burns beneath her pale pink skin. “You are not the one.” she says. She fights to control herself; the pounding of her heart and the rush of her breath in her lungs fill her ears and nearly deafens her. She looks at the man more closely, then recognizes his wild grey hair and kind eyes. “You--you are the Doctor. I was looking for you.”

The Doctor nods once, sharp and precise. There is a question in his eyes, but she will not--cannot--answer it. Not yet.

She is suddenly aware of how weary she is, and she almost regrets the scream. Almost. She knows that, in the long run, the rage will keep her going, will fuel her when all hope seems lost.

Still, her current circumstances are not this man’s fault. She cannot smile, but she calms her heart and says, “I’m sorry for frightening you, Doctor. Thank you for caring for me. My name is Rose.”

“Rose,” he repeats, and something about her name on his lips makes her want to hear it again, and again. It doesn’t sound like a name. It sounds like a wish. Like a prayer.

As if he can read her thoughts, he says her name again. “Rose. It’s good to hear your voice, you know. And to finally know your name.” He smiles, and his face turns a slight shade of pink as he says, “I’ve been talking to you this whole time, calling you things like ‘friend’ and ‘fair lady.’ Rose is much better. It suits you.”

“This whole time,” she says carefully. “How long would that be?”

“Little more than two days.” He scrubs at his hair, and she can tell by the way it flies in all directions that he does this often. Probably without even realizing it. Something about that tiny gesture lightens her heart.

And then she realizes what he had said. “Two days,” she repeats softly, then her eyes widen. “My leg, it’s--”

“Healed up right proper,” the Doctor interrupts. “I’ll admit it took a bit more out of me than I expected. And I had to ask a pixie friend about the right herbal combination to get the wound to close up. Nothing I tried worked quite right. She nearly startled out her skin when she saw you, but you know pixies. Told me the right herbs but not a word about you. Just put a hand against your forehead and then darted back to the moonlight.”

Again Rose sees the question in his eyes, but he does not speak. She holds his gaze for a heartbeat, two, three, but then her eyelids flutter closed. She may be awake, but she’s still far too weak for this battle of wills.

Eyes still closed, Rose says, “Could I have some water, please? And something to eat? If you think I’m well enough for food, of course.”

“I think we can work something out.” She can hear the smile in his voice.

She wants to trust this man, this Doctor who heals and makes friends with pixies and smiles so freely. But even as he presses a cup of cool water to her lips, one hand gently raising her head so she can drink, she reminds herself that he is a human, and humans always turn on her kind. They smile and love and make promises but soon they steal and trap and destroy. It never fails.

Rose may not have her skin, but she can put on her resolve like a cloak. She is here to get well, well enough to get back her stolen pelt. Then she can go home, back into the water, where she can swim far away from this place of temptation.

She swallows her sip of water, then settles into the softness of the feathers. _Just a little time,_ she tells herself.

She won’t allow herself to think about the soft touch of the Doctor’s fingers on her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter...it feels like a risk to me. Originally I'd planned to keep the entire story from the Doctor's point of view. But this chapter seemed all wrong every time I tried to write it...until I switched. And then suddenly everything, my whole outline, came together.
> 
> What do you think?


	6. Chapter 6

_..Then.._

She’s never been quite sure how old she is.

Not that there’s ever really been anyone to ask her, but she thinks about it every now and then. It’s not that she doesn’t understand the difference between one moment and another, between this year or that. It’s just that time is different for her. Time is fish and stars and cold, clear water flowing over her skin. Time is moonlight filtered down through heavy water, it is sleepy beaches, it is the snap of bones in her teeth, the tang of blood in her throat.

Sometimes, when she’s floating on her back and looking at the sky above, so full of stars she wonders if she could leap high enough to pull them down into the loch, she thinks about Before. But Before is distant, so much farther than the stars. Before is a twinkle in warm, brown eyes she can’t quite see, the echo of a song she almost remembers, the ghost of fingers that once worked the tangles from her hair. The touch, the presence, that is _Mother_. There are moments she can grasp pieces of Before, but it hurts more than any sharp rock and is more dangerous than even the most deadly of the fair folk. She does not enjoy the sting of salt in her eyes, or the stabbing pains in her heart. Before is poison. When she remembers this, she leaves Before alone.

After is safer.

Although she doesn’t remember much of the beginning of the After, either. It is mostly _away away away_. The first time she dares to slip out of her skin on an empty, moonlit beach she doesn’t recognize the body that emerges. Not only is she taller, but she’s rounder too, with bumps and curves in places she was flat and bony before. When did she grow and change so much? And why?

But these are all echoes, whispers on the edges of her dreams, leaves that land on the surface of a stream and float away.

She never stays in one place for too long. She doesn’t count the moons, but she always knows when it’s time to find another beach, another island, another loch. It’s her favorite thing, actually, the exploration. She sees icy waters, where the sky fills with snow like magic whirling in the air. She lounges on sparkling beaches and in the shadows of looming cliffs and in fields of grass so green it almost hurts her eyes. And the things she’s found under the water are more beautiful still--labyrinths of softly waving plants and hulking shipwrecks, the kaleidoscope of dancing fish and flowers, the rays of sunlight almost living things of their own.

One evening, after many moons or no time at all, as she floats on her back near a dock on the southernmost point of what she’s come to think of as “her islands,” she overhears the sailors talking as they work.

“Bound to be an easy crossing tomorrow,” says one.

“Aye,” says the other; his voice hitches, and she knows he is lifting something heavy. “No storms, good wind, perfect weather. We’ll be there quick as can be. ‘Course then we’ll be unloading all these heavy boxes and barrels over yonder.”

The first man grunts his assent.

Rose ponders, a warm glow of excitement growing within her. Is there more to see out there? And only a short swim away?

When the sun rises she follows the ship, and she finds herself somewhere almost like her islands but also utterly new. The humans look mostly the same, but they say _oui_ instead of _yes_ and _bonjour_ instead of _hello_ and that is only the beginning.

Her heart leaps in her chest. She will go back to her islands someday--they will always be her home. But there are new fish and different beaches. The sun kisses her sleek brown fur and the water that slides off of her is the water that she knows--has always known--but is also entirely new. Have the stars changed as well? Will the moon look at her with another face? It doesn’t matter, she decides. None of it matters. She has discovered the world, and she cannot give it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this was a tough one. I don't know why, but it's like every single word resisted me. Ugh. Hopefully the next bit will go a little easier...! It's funny, I wrote the first thing (not the first lines, but something near the beginning) and thought, _oh, this will be easy!_ and then it really wasn't. Oops.
> 
> And yeah, I know I was super vague about the event that happened to make Rose think of time as "before" and "after." I promise that won't last forever. I'm not that cruel. 😉
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me! Hope you had a great weekend!! 💙
> 
> P.S. Dear autocorrect, please stop changing my French to unrelated English words. It's annoying. Love, me.


	7. Chapter 7

_..Now.._

“Could I have some water, please? And something to eat? If you think I’m well enough for food, of course.”

The Doctor smiles. He can’t help it--Rose is awake and talking and _hungry_. “I think we can work something out.” He fills a cup with water from the pitcher on the table beside her bed, helps her to a near-sitting position, and gently presses the cup to her lips. She sips, then sinks back onto the pillow. He can’t resist tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Are you comfortable? Besides your leg, I mean.”

She appears to be carefully contemplating her answer. Finally she says, “I’ve never slept in a human bed before. It’s not at all what I’m accustomed to, but I rather like it. It’s almost like being held by birds.” She wrinkles her nose. “Without the danger of being smacked by wings.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like you have experience.”

“Geese are...not polite. They always think you want to steal from them, even if you’re only lying on their beach or swimming in their pond. And if even the fae think swans are beautiful, mostly they’re just mean. Have you ever been bitten by a swan, Doctor? It is not a comfortable thing.”

Outwardly he winces, but his heart lifts to hear her call him by his true name. “I’ve never had a run-in with a swan, no. But in my youth I had a fierce rivalry with a very angry chicken.”

Sweet laughter bursts from Rose’s lips. “A chicken?!”

Affronted and trying to maintain a dignified tone, he says, “It was very frightening! She wouldn’t let me anywhere near her eggs, squawked and pecked and raised a ruckus if I got within arm’s length. Chased me right out of the coop. Also, I was six.”

Rose tries to hide her laughter behind her hand, but soon gives up. “Poor little Doctor, running from a chicken,” she says between giggles.

“Yes, you’re definitely well enough for some food,” the Doctor says, his voice dry. Rose moves as if to swing herself out of bed and a soft moan, laced with pain, escapes her lips. “You’re not well enough for that, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, Rose. I’ll care for you.” He longs to reach out to her, to touch her hair again, but he knows that wouldn’t be proper. He shouldn’t have done it before. They’re only just getting to know each other, never mind that he’s been talking to her for several days now.

He doesn’t understand this fascination. But it’s true--he’s captivated by this woman, this _faerie_. He already knows he’d do just about anything to hear her laugh again. And it doesn’t matter what she is, what her secrets are. _We all have our secrets, don’t we,_ he thinks to himself. It doesn’t matter, he can’t help himself...he’ll do anything for her. He’s…

He’s falling in love with her.

The thought brings him up short. He’s got a ladleful of stew on its way to her bowl and it just hangs there, waiting. Love? How could he be in love after only two days? Two days of her being unconscious? Two days of exhaustive healing and very little sleep on his part...maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s just his overtired brain leaping to bizarre conclusions.

But as much as he tries to convince himself of that, he knows it isn’t true.

He’s falling for Rose.

He pulls a stool up close to by the bed. “Do you need help with the spoon?” he asks.

“I think I can manage, if I can just--” she struggles to pull herself to a sitting position but flops back onto the pillow.

“I can help with that,” the Doctor says, adding another pillow behind her so she can sit. She looks at him like she wants to argue, but she just nods. He nods back, his eyes soft.

He places a small tray across her lap so she doesn’t have to hold the bowl while she eats. Her eyes are grateful. When she tastes the first bite a small moan escapes her, and the Doctor fills with unexpected pleasure.

“This,” she says, then quickly takes another bite. “This isn’t human food. It’s too rich, too _real_. This is of the fae!” Her face is puzzled and pleased at once, and it’s all the Doctor can do to keep from laughing at the warring expressions.

“It’s a bit of both, actually. It’s lamb stew, almost like my mam used to make, but I’ve been friends with the fae since I was small, and I’ve learned a lot from them. Often as not one or another joins me for tea, or supper, or what have you, so I’ve learned to cook as to expect them at any time.” He feels a twinge about this lie, but it’s close enough to the truth that it doesn’t hurt too much. Perhaps someday he’ll explain all of it, but now is not the time.

Slowly she eats, and he can see her growing stronger and more exhausted with every bite. When she reaches her last he eases the spoon from her grasp and says, “Sleep. You need it.”

Rose looks like she wants to protest, but her eyes flutter closed. As the Doctor takes the tray from her lap and the extra pillow from behind her head, she whispers, “Alright.”

He reaches out to brush her hair from her face, but stops himself before finishing the too-familiar action. He settles for saying, his voice low and warm, “Sleep well, Rose. I’ll be here if you need me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been so absent!! I had a ridiculous deadline giving me panic attacks, and then I got sick...but now I'm back. And determined to finish. 💙


	8. Chapter 8

_..then.._

“You’re needed in the yard, Doctor.”

He looks up from his the weeds he’s pulling from his herb garden to see one of his sisters standing at the gate. “What is it? Did they say?”

“Missing child,” she says, then turns and walks away.

They still aren’t kind, his brothers and sisters. Although they’ve mostly stopped being outright mean to him, they still keep their distance as much as they can. He at least gets a bit of respect for his abilities, although he sometimes wonders if they fear him.

He stands and brushes the dirt from the knees of his trousers, noting that he’s going to need new ones again soon--the hems are nearly an inch above his ankles. _Not even fifteen_, he thinks, _and already the tallest in the family._ Will he ever stop growing? Thankfully a few years back his parents stopped complaining every time he told them he needed new things. They’d make a remark or two about him “growing faster than the potatoes,” or “needing new clothes every time the trees grow new leaves,” but it was always in jest. They just laughed together, and then a few days later there was a new pair of trousers, or shoes, or whatever it was he’d needed. 

It isn’t a difficult afternoon--it turns out the lost little boy isn’t actually lost, he’s hiding in the root cellar. The Doctor holds the boy’s favorite ball between his hands, closes his eyes, and just knows. Looking up at the boy’s father, he says, “He’s in the root cellar. Try not to be too hard on him--he only hid because he was afraid to tell you that he dropped two of the eggs this morning when he was collecting them and he thought you’d be mad.”

The man’s face flits between relieved, amused, and annoyed, but seems to land on amused, and this pleases the Doctor. “Thank you, Doctor,” the man says, offering his hand. They shake, and the Doctor again is left slightly amazed at how much has changed since his early years. He still feels alone, but he’s gained at least a measure of courtesy.

The Doctor nods at the man and then turns to go back to his small, fenced-in herb garden. He’s just around the corner of the house when a pixie leaps from a tree to land on the roof. “What are you doing up there?” he calls in a low voice. “Not causing trouble, are you?” The small faerie looks at him with unblinking lavender eyes, then darts to the front edge of the roof, peeking over. She beckons for him to have a look.

Curious, the Doctor goes back to the corner of the house. He’s sure no one can hear him. He’s had plenty of practice creeping silently through the woods--the fae taught him well.

At first he doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to be looking at. His father is shaking hands with the man who’d come for help. It looks like the man is saying thank you.

“And thank you, kind sir. And mind you bring the rest of the payment by next week,” his father says.

The man’s face falls. “The rest? I gave you the standard price.” 

He couldn’t see his father’s face, but could tell from his father’s posture that he was smiling his false smile. The Doctor had been on the receiving end of it so often he knew it from any angle.

“Ah, but prices have increased. Growing boys cost more to feed, and need more things. Clothes, boots, even books. And all those herbs he grows out in his...”

His father goes on, but the Doctor doesn’t follow the rest of the conversation. There’s a ringing in his ears, a high-pitched sound that fills his entire being. His vision blurs and threatens to white out. His feet move on their own, and he doesn’t even register when the pixie takes him by the hand and leads him away from the house. At first they’re walking, then jogging, then running full out into the forest, trees whipping by them, wildflowers and thickets seeming to jump out of the way as the ground passes beneath his feet.

His lungs feel on fire as they finally stop; he sprawls at the base of one of the forest’s Mother Trees. It’s all coming clear now. His parents have been collecting money from all the people he’s helped over the years. All the people he’s healed, all the people he’s helped find their missing sheep or children or family heirlooms. He closes his eyes, looks at the house, the barn, the fields with new perspective. They’ve had better equipment, they’ve had extra food instead of not enough, and they’ve all had nicer clothes and shoes.

“All those people,” he breathes, an angry sob catching in his throat. “All those people. I helped because I could, because I cared, and it cost me nothing.” There’s a chime from a dryad, and he pulls a face. “Alright,” he concedes, “some of the healings are draining. But I never take long to feel like myself again. And I didn’t do it for...for money! Especially not for…”

_For them_, he does not say. The old resentments, never deeply buried, bubble to the surface. “They treat me like an outcast, like some strange creature they found one day in place of their son, but they have no problem using me to gain wealth and prestige with the people of the village.”

His stomach churns, thinking about how he’s been used. How many years has he been sharing his gifts with the people of the village and the surrounding countryside? Seven, at least. How many lives has he touched? He doesn’t regret the good he’s done, but knowing that his parents took advantage of so many desperate, frightened people…

Right then he decides he has to get away.

Somehow.

But how?

He’s got nowhere to go. He’s suddenly seeing his world with clear eyes. His parents have always kept him isolated from the rest of the nearby folk. Of course. It spreads the idea that he is somehow different, almost to be feared, _and_ it keeps him from getting close enough to someone to learn about the material gain the family is getting from his abilities. There are probably wild tales about him throughout the area. His brothers and sisters used to say he was a changeling, that he was too strange to be of their kin. (The fae themselves won’t even address this question. They say he is himself, and it’s foolish to ask anything more.) Could outsiders be saying even worse about him?

Could he stay with the fae? Just fade into the forest one day and not go home again? Ten years ago he’d have said they’d never even notice, but now…now they’d miss their prize, their… He smiles a bitter and broken smile. “I’m their cash cow.” The sound of his voice hurts his own ears. They’d almost certainly come after him, tromping through the forest, damaging the home of his friends. His true family. He jumps to his feet, kicking angrily at the ground, and he nearly pounds a fist on the gnarled trunk of the Mother Tree but stops himself just in time.

He hangs his head and drops back to the ground under the tree. He can feel the fair folk all around him, gathering near to offer their comfort even as they keep their distance. They would take him in, he knows they would; they would offer him shelter, and they’ve already taught him to find food. But he is not their kind. Not exactly.

But. There just might be something. The fae gather closer, sensing his shift in mood; they are eager to listen and to do what they can. He almost--almost--smiles.

“I could use your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little gift for you all--I took a break from 31 Days of Ficmas* to write a new chapter! Sorry-not-sorry for the angstiness of this chapter. It's part of the Doctor's story, and I'm just telling his story, after all....
> 
> More soon!
> 
> *Don't worry, I'll be back on schedule tomorrow, day 4 is even already written!


	9. Chapter 9

_..Now.._

Rose paces.

It’s a very slow process, pacing on a sore leg after being in bed for three days--two of them in a magical sleep--but she needs the motion. Back and forth, back and forth, across the small room with the soft bed. She’d realized just before she drifted off to sleep that she was in the Doctor’s room, in his bed. Where is he sleeping? She’d wanted to ask him, but sleep overcame her too fast.

But now she’s awake, and she’s been on her feet off and on since he’d helped her out of bed that morning. She tells herself she’s testing the limits of her leg, but she knows better. Being trapped here in this human’s house is too much for her.

So she paces.

Who is this man, this Doctor? He is fully human, she can see that when she looks into his eyes. But he knows about pixies, about dryads and nymphs and brownies--and likely many more faeries he hasn’t spoken of yet--and he grows and eats the food of the fae. The faeries, they don’t share their secrets easily. She can’t believe this man full of kindness could have stolen the knowledge, tricking the fae into giving up their secrets, but how else could he have done it? Could he truly just be a friend of the fae, an adopted child of the land of Faerie? Those are so rare she’s never met one before.

He doesn’t seem to know what she is. Should she tell him? She’d been looking for him, seeking his help, because she’d heard tell of a man known for finding things lost. After seeing his healing abilities and easy way with the local faeries she believes he can help her. But he lives on the edge of the faerie realm; will he grab hold of the chance to dive in fully? If he finds her stolen skin, if he holds it in his hands, will he give it back to her? Or will he keep it for himself?

“You look like you’re feeling better.”

Rose jumps, startled by the Doctor’s voice. “Yes,” she says, keeping her voice even. “I’m a bit stiff, but your healing was quite effective. Thank you, Doctor.” 

The Doctor’s smile makes something twinge in her chest. His face is so open, so kind. She wants to trust him. She wants to _touch_ him.

But is he _real_?

A voice inside her head, a voice she’s been heeding since she was small, says _Stay away from humans, Rose._ She straightens her spine, coming to herself. Looking into the Doctor’s eyes she says, “I think...no, I _know_...I’d have died without your help. You are a truly gifted man.”

He shrugs. “I have certain...abilities. They’ve proven useful over the years.” She doesn’t expect the bitterness in his tone.

She fights a quiet battle within herself. Part of her doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to get to know this man. This _human_. But somehow she can’t resist the pull towards him. “Doctor?” she says. She bites her lower lip before she says more.

“It was a long time ago,” the Doctor says. “My family...they didn’t understand me. I was too different. At first they feared me, then they took advantage.” He shrugs. “But it’s been, oh, so many years. I don’t think about it much anymore.”

She knows it’s not true. It’s part of who he is, even if it happened long ago. But she doesn’t push. It’s not her place.

The silence stretches between them, until finally the Doctor begins to speak again. He sounds like he’s far away, dragging memories the long distance from time gone by. “I helped my family with small things, when I could. Easing the birthing for one of the family ewes, coaxing the soil to give its best, finding a lost ball or hair ribbon. Eventually I started helping the locals. Once word got around that I could heal they started seeking me out. I loved to be useful, especially since I was such an outcast among my own kin; I gave of myself because it cost me nothing. And it was one of these neighbors who gave me my true name. But what I didn’t realize, didn’t find out until I’d given years of service to the townsfolk, was that my parents were charging the people for everything I did. Behind my back they were using me to fill their pockets and build their status in town. I was fourteen when I found out, and...well. It wasn’t very pleasant. And then I left.”

She looks at him curiously. “Do you ever see them? Your family?”

“They’re…” He flashes an odd sort of smile, then looks away. “No. But I have my life here, and it’s a good one. Somewhat solitary, as far as human contact goes, but it’s good.”

One of the gifts of the fae is to be able to detect a lie. The Doctor isn’t lying, not exactly. But his words skirt the edge of truth in a way she can’t quite grasp.

“You still help the people of the town. I--” She stops, realizing she’s walking a fine line. Looking at him, she continues. “Well, I heard tell of you, in a way. I heard talk of an odd man, living alone near the Ring of Brodgar, who had strange abilities; a man who offered what help he could to those who dared ask for it.”

“It’s not the same town,” he says lightly. “I moved on from those days. But yes, I use my gifts when I can. And when people are brave enough to come to me here.”

Again, she sees truth on him, but not the whole truth.

She needs to get away from this man. It’s dangerous to be near a human, and she’s drawn to this one like a shark to blood in the water.

“I don’t feel brave,” Rose says, looking into his eyes. “But I do need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized tonight, looking at my outline, that there are only _five_ chapters left. How can that be??
> 
> *bounces with excitement*
> 
> 💙


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is long. Quite a bit longer than any other chapter in this fic so far. But it's a story that's been hinted at for awhile and needed a lot of words to tell. (Somehow I don't think you'll mind.)
> 
> (There is a bit of a consent issue–not with either of our main characters–and I wasn't sure how to tag it so if you feel like you might need an explanation before you read the chapter I'll put a more detailed warning in the notes at the end.)

_..Then.._

The water sparkles around them, brighter than Rose has ever seen. It’s like the water is reaching out to her, just begging her to play. She slips through the sparkles, rolling onto her back and back onto her belly, darting to her mother’s side and away again. Her nose wrinkles as she laughs.

Mother is beautiful. The deep brown of her pelt is mottled with grey; Mother is an underwater constellation. At night when they drift toward sleep, pressed up against each other among the stones of an island or on an empty shoreline, Mother tells her about the stars in the sky. But in the water Rose watches Mother and knows she’s found a different kind of star.

Rose is laughing and playing, leaping into the air and splashing back into the water, when Mother suddenly slows. _Come with me, little one_, Mother says, darting to the surface.

The sunlight fills Rose’s eyes, and at first all she can see is the bright blue sky. Then she sees Mother looking along the water; following her gaze she sees that they are in a small cove edged with a pebble-strewn beach. Rose yips with delight. They usually swim in the day and only beach at night, but sometimes Mother lets Rose play on the shore. 

_May I, Mother?_ Rose doesn’t have to say more; Mother’s laughter echoes through her mind.

_Of course, my Rose,_ Mother says. _It’s time to play. Feel the warmth of the sunlight on your skin_. Rose splashes her way up the beach, rolling in crushed seashells and pebbles and coating herself with sand. Mother laughs again, this time barking into the air. Several pale grey birds with black caps and bright red beaks swoop down and land near Rose, one hopping closer and tipping its head to eye her with clear curiosity. _It’s called a tern, an arctic tern. It eats fish, just like we do._ Rose barks and pulls herself toward the birds, but they take off before she can get a closer look.

Rose rolls in the sand again, then sprawls on her back and looks towards the water. Everything is upside-down and Rose laughs with delight. Soon Mother comes to nudge her belly with her nose, saying _Enjoying the beach, little one?_ Rose yips, and Mother’s amusement washes over her in a wave. But there’s a look in Mother’s eyes, something serious that Rose doesn’t understand. _You’re getting older, sweet. It’s time for you to learn some things._

Nosing at Mother, Rose quivers with anticipation._ Is it about birds? Or fish? Or **stars**?_ She loves creatures, and she loves the sea, but the stars are what she loves most of all. Except for Mother, of course.

_Not about the world, sweet. This lesson is about you._

Rose holds her body still, even though inside she’s bouncing with excitement. _About **me**, Mother?_

Love flows from Mother, and Rose buries her face in Mother’s side. It’s so much love, and she is only little.

_You’ve noticed that we’re different from other creatures of the sea. Even when we swim with other seals, you can tell that they’re not the same as us._

Rose yips._ They don’t talk. At least not like we do._

Rose feels Mother’s approval. _That’s right. They speak with their bodies, with sounds and smells. We speak with our minds and our hearts._

She’s never thought about this before, but she can see that it’s true. She noses mother, silently asking for more.

_We are faery-kind, folk of magic and light. We have gifts that others do not. Our most magical gift is…_ She stops, her liquid brown eyes fixed on Rose. _I think it’s better if I show you,_ she says.

Rose watches first with curiosity and then with confusion mixed with delight. Because Mother–she’s _shining_. She quivers and her skin ripples and then she somehow _slips right out of it._ And what Rose sees where Mother had been; she knows this beautiful creature is Mother, because no one else could be as beautiful, but she still sits there in awe. She yips anxiously.

“It’s me, little Rose,” says the perfect creature. Her face is flat instead of pointy, and instead of a warm pelt she has soft pink skin, and yellow hair floats down around her like a waterfall. She’s round and soft, with two long legs on one end and two shorter legs up by her head, not sleek and pointy at the ends like she’d been before. Rose is so intent on taking in every inch of this new, different Mother that it takes her almost a minute to realize that Mother had _spoken_. She spoke with her (oddly shaped) mouth, with _sounds_, instead of inside her head the way she usually speaks. Her voice is like Mother, but also _not_; it’s higher and more musical and almost enchanting and Rose feels drawn to the sound.

Hesitantly Rose slumps toward this pink and yellow vision. _Mother?_ she asks. She’s almost afraid, but she can still feel reassurance and love from Mother, even if she’s speaking out loud and confusing Rose’s own thoughts.

“Don’t be afraid, dear one. It’s me. It’s your mother.” She reaches out one of her shorter legs and rests a paw on the side of Rose’s face. Rose knows the touch instantly; the touch of skin is different from the touch of nose or flipper, but Mother is there.

_Mother!_ She yips and barks in confusion and joy. _Why do you look so strange?_

“We are unique,” Mother says. “There are a few others like us, who can shed their skins and walk among the humans, but we are spread far and wide. We mostly keep to ourselves.”

_Do I look like you? Am I all pink and yellow inside?_

Mother’s laugh is like bells ringing. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen you without your skin. Would you like to see?”

_Oh yes!_ Excitement ripples through Rose in a wave, a ripple that goes from her nose to her tail.

If someone asked her she’d never be able to describe how she slips out of her skin. It’s more magic than anything; mostly wishing, with a hint of wiggling. One minute she is Rose-of-the-sea and then she is Rose-of-the-land, and her laughter rings out like mother’s, only her bells are higher and sweeter.

“Mother!” she gasps, and she awkwardly snaps her mouth shut in surprise. She didn’t have to learn how to speak, she just knew; the knowledge had been inside her, just waiting for the right moment to bloom. Just like she knows that at the end of her legs she has feet, and what she’d thought were shorter legs on mother are actually arms, with hands at the end of them. “And fingers,” she says aloud, gazing at her hands in wonder.

“Yes, lovely girl,” Mother says, smiling. Rose runs to Mother, and is wrapped up in the first hug she’s ever had.

“Oh,” says Rose, overwhelmed. She feels Mother’s nod against her hair.

“You’re all pink and yellow too,” Mother says after a time. “A mite smaller, though.”

Rose pulls away, looking at herself next to Mother. She’s on her feet and Mother is kneeling on the sand, and they are eye to eye. Rose’s widen. “You’re _much_ bigger than me! Why am I so small?”

Mother laughs, bells ringing across the beach again. “Oh Rose, you’ve got ages and ages to grow. Don’t rush things, love. Enjoy the sea, the sand, the sun.”

“The stars,” Rose adds.

“Always the stars,” Mother agrees.

They sit on the sand for a time, Mother working the tangles out of Rose’s long yellow hair. Somehow Mother’s hair is perfect, something she can’t explain. “Perhaps it’s just part of the magic.”

“Beautiful lady,” says another voice, low and rough and full of longing, like when Rose begs Mother to let her lay on the rocks, or stay awake longer to gaze at the stars. “I’ve been dreaming of you,” the voice continues. “Come away with me, beautiful lady. We’ll live happily in my cabin by the sea. Please.” The voice breaks, shatters, on the last word.

“It’s alright, Rose,” Mother murmurs into Rose’s hair, calming her. “He’s enchanted, he can’t help it. We can’t help it either, I’m afraid. But don’t worry, I’ll send him away, and we can laze on the beach and then go back to our waters.” She turns, but just before Rose sees her face turn to something hard and stern, a look she’d never thought to see on her mother. It’s almost frightening.

“Begone,” Mother says, her voice harsh. “There is nothing for–oh!” The last is a gasp, and, though she doesn’t know why, Rose’s heart drops.

“Isn’t this yours, lady? Doesn’t it mean we’re meant to be together?” He sounds lost, so sad, so confused. And Rose sees that he’s holding a beautiful seal pelt, soft and warm. But something about it looks wrong to Rose. She squints, trying to see, trying to understand.

Mother turns to Rose, and her eyes are wet. _She’s crying_, the new knowledge inside her says. “What’s wrong, Mother?”

Rose is crushed in Mother’s arms. “I’m sorry, love, I’m so so sorry, but I–” her voice breaks, then she takes a deep breath and continues. “I have to leave you.” Now Rose is crying too, trying to understand. Why would Mother leave her? “I hoped we could stay together for always, but that’s not the way the world works sometimes. I’ve got to stay here, on the land.”

“But Mother!” Rose can’t hold it in any longer. “You’re of the sea! Right now you look of the land, but you are of the sea. Your blood, your soul, they belong to the water.” Rose is looking at Mother through the tears that are now streaming down her face.

Tears taste like the sea.

“I know, my Rose. I know. But it will be alright. I’ll find joy on the land. I’ll still have the stars, right? And when you look up at the stars you can know I’m looking up too, at the very same stars. Because you, my lovely girl, have to go. You have to swim far, and swim fast, and this, this is the most important thing, okay?” Rose nods, eyes still full of tears. “You _must_ stay away from humans. Humans are not safe, Rose. Always hide your pelt if you take it off, and stay away from humans. Do you understand?”

Rose nods again, trying to be grown up, trying to be brave and strong. She doesn’t understand everything, not really, but she can remember to stay away from humans. It shouldn’t be too hard; until today she’s only ever seen them from a distance.

Mother hugs Rose one more time, kisses each cheek, then turns to face the man. “There’s been a misunderstanding, but I think we can work it out. The pelt you’re holding, it doesn’t belong to me. It’s my daughter’s.”

Rose peeks around Mother to look at the man and then it all comes clear, why Mother’s pelt had looked wrong. Because it hadn’t been Mother’s. It had been _hers_ all along.

She suddenly feels sick. “But if you give it back to her, let her go back to the sea, I will give you my skin _and_ my word as a creature of the fae that I will never look for it. I will willingly stay with you for as long as we live, so long as you let my daughter go.”

Mother’s voice never wavers; she is endlessly strong. The man’s face changes in a way Rose can’t quite understand. “I’d never hurt a child,” he says softly. “Never.” He hands Rose’s pelt to Mother and Rose can see her relax the slightest bit.

She turns back to Rose, crouches down, and says, “Go, my daughter. Remember: swim far, swim fast, and stay away from humans. And,” she adds with a small smile, “I love you always.” She holds Rose one more time, and then Rose is back to herself, all slippery skin and flippers, and she’s swimming, and swimming, and wishing these eyes knew how to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Dubious consent–Rose's mum willingly gives up her life in the sea to stay with a human, but it's clearly not what she wants to do.
> 
> Whew. This was a tough one to write. But I promise, promise, _promise_ a happy ending.
> 
> (and only four chapters left!!!!!)


	11. Chapter 11

_...Now.._

“You know I’m of the fae,” Rose begins. She’s nervous, only meeting his eye for a moment before flitting away again.

“Yes,” the Doctor says simply. 

“But you don’t know anything more than that.”

He gives her a small smile. “It didn’t seem you wanted me to ask.”

She doesn’t return the smile, or meet his eye. “I–”

Whatever else she wants to say sticks in her throat. And, he notices with surprise, her eyes are wet with unshed tears.

The fae don’t generally cry.

It’s not that they aren’t capable. They just don’t like to look vulnerable in front of any other creatures. Also, from his experience, they’re generally either happy and carefree or angry and vengeful; they don’t often spend time in sadness.

He wants to say something, anything: to tell her she’s safe, to explain how he knows so much about the fae, to cautiously touch her elbow and offer her a place to sit. But he holds himself still and quiet, somehow knowing that what she needs right now is space, and time.

“It’s all a bit of a blur,” she says, slowly walking back and forth across the small room. “It was such a long time ago. I was just a pu–I mean, a child, and the whole thing has become a big tangled knot of anger and fear and sadness.” She sinks to the bed, as if remembering has become too much for her. “And–somehow–I remember there was joy. Before all the badness it was actually quite beautiful. Pink, and yellow.” Rose smiles, and even though the smile is full of sadness it lights up his heart.

“What I don’t understand–what I’ve been trying to understand since I first woke up here in this room–is why you aren’t enchanted by me? You like me, but it’s an ordinary thing. No,” she says when he starts to interrupt, “I don’t mean there’s nothing special about our growing friendship, because I can feel that too.” Her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink, and his heart beats a little faster at this admission. “What I mean is it’s not any kind of magical attraction. It’s just because two people like each other.” The pink of her cheeks deepens. Her voice becomes desperate. “You _should_ be enchanted by me! Because I can’t turn it off. I’ve tried. The few times I’ve been in close proximity to humans they just...they bow and fawn and want to touch my hair or kiss my hand. They stumble over their words trying to convince me how much they love me. And the only thing I can do is either command them to go away or get myself away from them and back into my sk–into the water as quickly as possible.”

His heart nearly stops. This...it’s something he’d never considered. He’d been thinking she might be a skittish dryad, or some kind of forest faerie using a glamour.

“You’re a selkie,” he breathes. “It’s why you seemed to be aching for the water when I first saw you by the loch.” He runs his fingers through his hair, eyes wide with wonder. “I’ve known so many of the fae, and not one of them has ever met a selkie. That little pixie who was here, she’s probably told everyone by now; I’m surprised we haven’t had visitors yet.”

“We have,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “Not in the house, not even very near. But in the forest, and in the fields. If I went outside they would come to me.”

“Do you–”

“No, not now. Perhaps later. There’s more to my...Doctor, I know you have questions. And maybe…” She looks into his eyes, and for the first time he can feel that her longing is comparable to his own. “Maybe when this is all over I’ll answer them. I think...I think I might like that.” A faint blush rises again in her cheeks. “But I did come to you for help.”

He rocks back on his heels. He’d actually forgotten that. His focus had been on healing her wounds and making her feel safe. And on hiding his increasing–attraction? infatuation? _love_?–every time they were in the same room together.

Crouching in front of her, he asks for permission with a look and, when she nods, he takes her hands lightly in his own. “I’ll do anything I can for you. No enchantment needed.”

She nods again, a look of fierce determination on her face. “You can probably guess the problem.”

“Someone has your skin.”

Her body goes rigid, and he can feel the anger coming from her in waves. “It was late at night, I just wanted to see the starlight with human eyes. I should have been safe, it was a tiny, secluded beach…” She blinks back angry tears.

The Doctor is well practiced at schooling his features, at keeping his thoughts from showing on his face. It’s a good thing; a surprised look right now would be taken the wrong way. But he _is_ surprised. This is twice now Rose has felt safe enough to let herself cry in his presence, to show him her true emotions.

“It happened so fast. I was lying on my back, feeling the sand against my skin. It was a beautiful night, the stars were so close I thought they might all just fall to earth. But of course it couldn’t last. There was a man, and my pelt was in his hands, and when I demanded it back he...he was so angry. He went a bit mad, I think it was the dark side of the enchantment. There was a struggle; I got away, but that’s how my leg was injured.”

He bites back his questions. There must be more, because the wound bled and bled and took so much out of him to heal. But he lets her tell it–in her own time, in her own way.

“I must have blacked out at some point, because when I awoke there was sun in my eyes and my blood was everywhere.” She looks ill, remembering. “I don’t have a lot of magic, nothing for defense other than the ability to weave a bit of my will into my words. But if anyone had been around that morning I think they might have been injured or even killed by my scream. It was so full of fear and rage, and without thinking I threw every scrap of magic I had into it. It weakened me so; for a time I thought I might die on that beach.”

Well. That explains that bit at least. Drained almost to the point of death–no wonder it had been a difficult healing.

“But I didn’t die. I slept. When I woke it was near dark again. The sun had just set, the sky was a dusky purple. I was still very weak, and surprised to be alive. There was a flicker of magic left in me, and that was good, because I had two things to do.”

Her posture is perfect, back straight, ankles crossed. But something in her presence is vulnerable: the downcast eyes? The way she’s fingering the soft wool of her skirt? The way she chews her lower lip when she’s considering what to say?

“First I had to–” She breaks off, looking into his eyes for the first time since she’d reminded him she needed his help. “Doctor, do you know how strange it is to tell you these things? These are faery things, faery secrets. And yet, somehow I think you already know what I’m going to tell you.”

He smiles, a gentle, knowing smile. “You made clothes.”

She shakes her head in wonder. “I made clothes.”

It’s a small magic all the fair folk share. (To them it’s small; to humans it would be considered a marvel. That’s why the fae don’t tell them.) Faeries don’t need thread or wool or flax to make clothing. They can take bits of things from the natural world–leaves, tree bark, spider’s silk, moss–and magic it into whatever they’d like to wear. So Rose’s grey wool dress isn’t actually made of wool, it’s made of something she found on the beach. Seaweed, possibly, or marsh grass.

“I had just enough in me for the dress, there was nothing left for shoes. That was alright, I wasn’t bothered by pain in my feet. But I was too tired to go on, so I decided to sleep until morning. When I woke to more sunshine my magic had replenished just a little bit more, enough that I could find the man who stole my skin.”

The Doctor couldn’t help the quizzical look on his face. “He’d gotten a lot of my blood on him when he attacked me,” Rose says. The smile on her lips is fierce, and doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s another bit of faery magic. Nothing flashy, just the ability to track our own blood. Mostly a useless talent, but sometimes it comes in handy. No matter how hard he scrubbed, traces would remain.”

Rose sits for over a minute, lost in the past. She still has the strange grin on her lips and she’s staring off past the Doctor’s shoulder, seeing much more than his modest bedroom. Just when he thinks she might be lost in her thoughts she goes on. “He was easy to find. He’s got a big house in the center of town, with stables and his own blacksmith. I didn’t go near, but I heard him bragging to the men of the town about his new bride, how she was going to give him beautiful children.”

He fights to stay calm, thinking about Rose being taken against her will, having a part of herself stolen away. He doesn’t know who this man is, but he knows the type. He’s had to deal with them before. They think the world owes them whatever they desire.

But Rose is not a trinket, a seashell to be picked up off the beach and placed on a mantle to make a home look pretty. Rose is herself, and belongs to no one.

“I lingered in the town, deciding what to do. I didn’t actually speak to anyone–mostly I didn’t want to deal with the enchantment again–but I heard whispers of you wherever I went. The Doctor, the man who helps. He’s a strange one,” this she says with a true smile, and a sparkle in her lovely eyes, “but he heals, and he finds things, and if he can he helps. Always.”

She looks deep into his eyes again, and again he wonders what she sees there. In Rose’s eyes he sees hope, and maybe the start of something deeper.

His heart lifts.

“Will you help me, Doctor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could he _possibly_ say no??
> 
> 💙
> 
> We're in the home stretch now! Your comments and kudos keep me going, thank you sooooo much for supporting me through this story! It's been so close to my heart, I just love sharing it with you all. 💙


	12. Chapter 12

“Ye know what’s happening.” The brownie gazes steadily at the Doctor, not shying away from his glare.

The Doctor doesn’t move. It’s not a question, so he doesn’t feel like he needs to answer. The brownie already knows.

“There’s nothing I can do,” he finally says.

A snort greets this. “That’s a lie, and ye well know it. Ye could do plenty. Ye just don’t want to.” _Not for them_ is left unspoken.

The brownie had come with him when he’d left his family. He’d been standing on the hearth, warming himself by the fire, taking one last look at his childhood home. The only home he’d ever known. He jumped when the brownie appeared at his elbow.

“You’ll get me caught,” he hissed, when he calmed his heart enough to speak. They couldn’t stop him–at least, he didn’t think they could. But he didn’t want a scene. He wanted to leave, to be done with the place. And all that went with it.

Still he had to stop for a moment, just to remember. There were very few good memories, but he wanted to remember anyway.

Maybe just to remind himself why he was leaving.

“Ye know I won’t,” said the brownie, breaking him out of his thoughts. “They can’t see me when I’m under their noses. Can’t hear me, either.” He looks around, his sharp eyes taking in everything in the darkness. “It’s past time yer away from this place. Besides,” he added, “I’m goin’ with ye.”

“You are not,” the Doctor said automatically. Then, realizing what he’d heard, he said, “You are?”

“Ye don’t think I’d leave ye now, do ye? I’ve been with ye since yer cradle.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been at a loss for words.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Then, with resolve, “Let’s go then.”

Yes, he knows what’s going on in the village. He knows about his parents, his brothers, his sisters.

And their children.

“They’re afraid of me. All of them. They wouldn’t let me near enough to help even if I wanted to.” _Which I don’t._

Another snort from the brownie. “They still come to you, when the need is great.”

This time it’s the Doctor’s turn to laugh. The laugh is bitter, even the taste it leaves in his mouth. “Yes, they do. In secret. When no one else is watching.” He runs a hand through his wild brown curls. “They like my help, but they’d _never_ let me into their homes. They’ll cringe back in fear even as the life drains out of them.”

The brownie says nothing more, but the Doctor can feel his disapproval.

He sighs. It’s not their fault, not this most recent fear anyway. They don’t understand. He’s not sure he understands it himself.

There’s a sickness running through the village. That in itself is nothing new; illnesses of varying degrees spread throughout the countryside every winter. But it seems this one is worse than normal. People are dying. Nearly a third of the people in the area, at last count.

Not that any humans have shared this information with him. The faeries keep a closer watch on them than any of the humans would ever believe. If they believed in the fae at all, which most of them don’t.

To get away from the knowing looks from the brownie--and possibly away from his thoughts--he goes out onto the porch of his small cottage. There’s a definite chill in the air but, surprisingly, no snow has fallen yet this winter. He likes the snow. It blankets the world, muffles the sounds, makes everything clean again. It doesn’t last, but there’s something magical about a first snowfall. He chuckles softly; he’s spent his entire life swimming in magic, but he can’t help but see magic in the mundane.

“Good evening to you,” he says softly, nodding towards the ring of giants in the distance. “Hope it’s a pleasant one.” He pulls at his curls again. “You’ve been stone for time out of mind, and still your day is better than mine,” he spits, bitterness clenching at his heart.

The sun is nearly set on the far side of the loch; the sky above is a deep, dark blue speckled with the first hint of stars while the horizon is a riot of brilliant sunset color. It’s a good place, his isolated spot on the loch. Fields, forest, and water all meet just here, making it ideal for all kinds of fae. And the folk of the village won’t come near unless their need is great–their fear of the stone giants keeps them closer to town.

The faeries had known the perfect place when he’d asked where he should live. And they’d helped build his house, too. All the magic woven through the place, it would probably stand longer than he himself.

Well, he’d thought that at first anyway. Now he’s not so sure.

It had taken three months to build and furnish the house, and another two to get up the nerve to leave. They treated him badly and then they took advantage of him, but somehow he still cared for them. It had been hard to let go.

“They’re yer kin,” the brownie had said, as if no other explanation was necessary.

And for a time that had been all that mattered. He’d gotten away, helped the people of the town on his own terms, and eventually he and his family had reached a kind of equilibrium. Not love–he doesn’t think it had ever been love–but at least a kind of kinship. His visits were few and there were long stretches of time where he didn’t feel needed so stayed away, but time had smoothed the rough edges. What had been mistrust and anger became a kind of delicately balanced association. Almost a comfortable one.

Of course it couldn’t last.

The Doctor closes his eyes, bombarded with memories. The dawning realization leading to fear in his parents’ eyes. The sting of the cut on his arm from when his sister threw a bowl at him; it missed, but hit the wall behind him, shattered, and one of the larger pieces slashed his arm. But the look on her face hurt more than the cut. Her look and her words, the horrified “get out get out get out!” screamed over and over. The tear-stained faces of his nieces and nephews, peeking through the windows.

The delegation of townsfolk at his door, letting him know he’s not welcome in town anymore.

That last, he doesn’t blame them. His family had grown powerful and he had known from the start that the “banishment” had been their doing. The men who came to tell him couldn’t even look him in the eye; he knows they felt the shame in their actions. 

Still, it stings.

“Look what ye’ve done to yerself,” the brownie says, making a tutting sound. He deftly springs onto the porch rail, reaching up to straighten the Doctor’s hair. 

The Doctor gives a derisive snort. “Who’s going to see my hair? Not a single human, not even me. And you’re the only faerie who seems to notice.”

“Ye could see, if ye’d get a mirror,” the brownie says, a sassy lilt to his voice.

“You know why…” the Doctor starts, but he lets the words trail off. Of course the brownie knows. And that’s the point, isn’t it.

Behind his house, at the edge of the wood, is a small, shallow pond. A few years back he’d built it for a water nymph too shy for the big loch. He walks there now, slow but steady, the brownie trailing five or six paces behind.

The water is still, mirror calm. He steels himself, then looks in, knowing what he’ll see.

It’s been over fifty years since he left home. His parents are well into their eighties, bent and grey; his father cannot walk without a cane. If this sickness doesn’t take them, age will do its work soon enough.

His brothers and sisters have children. Many of their _children_ have children.

The Doctor is 67 years old. He looks like he’s about 20.

The faeries say it’s their fault, that he’s so overflowing with magic–both whatever he was born with and the magic of the fae he’s been surrounded by his entire life–his very essence has changed. “We don’t know how long you’ll live,” they tell him all the time. But he eats well–fish from the loch, vegetables from the ground, meat from his animals, sometimes even faery food–and he takes good care of his body. He suspects he’s going to have a very long life.

He tries not to think about it.

The brownie gently hugs his leg, the only part of the Doctor he can reach. Sighing, the Doctor says, “How can they not be afraid when they see me like this? It’s a brutal reminder that I’m magical, that I’m _different_. They’ve always been frightened of things that are different. They shunned me even when I was as small as you. All of them. Even my parents.” The words don’t come out angry, just tired. Tired and true.

“But ye still care.”

“Of course I still care! I care about the whole cursed town!” He throws up his hands and stomps a few steps back towards his house. “I can’t help it,” he says, his voice low and calm. His chin drops to his chest.

“Then why won’t ye help? We both know ye could save them. Maybe not the whole town–it would take too much energy from ye–but yer family. Ye could save _them_.”

The Doctor looks at the rising moon. He sighs so long it sounds like he’s breathing out the breath of the whole town.

“I’m tired,” he finally says. “I’m tired of giving my all for nothing in return. I don’t need _payment_, but would a simple ‘thank you’ hurt any of them? I’m tired of pushing in where I’m not wanted and forcing them to take what I know they need. I’m tired of being the one who sees what’s coming and the one no one listens to.” Softly, maybe only to himself, he says, “I’m tired of being feared.”

Even more softly, barely making any sound at all, the Doctor says, “I’m going to have to watch them die someday. Why shouldn’t it be now?” He hates saying it, hates even _thinking_ it. But there it is.

Slumping to the mossy bank of the pond, the Doctor closes his eyes. “I know I look young, but some days I feel rather old. And so very, very tired.” As if to emphasize his point, he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this several days ago and have been staring at it a few times a day ever since. But it's done, and it's as good as it's gonna get. *shrug* We're never completely happy with our own work, are we? ;)


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